


W is for Winners, Baby.

by CookieCatSU



Category: Snowpiercer (TV 2020)
Genre: But nothing past the first five episodes, Canon Divergence, Fruit, Gen, Identity Reveal, It is now, Pre-Friendship, Pre-Slash too I guess, Spoilers, This was written after episode 2 or something, is that a thing?, somewhat an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Andre Layton. He's the first person she tells, beyond the engineers.
Relationships: Melanie Cavill & Andre Layton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	W is for Winners, Baby.

Balance- Balance was essential. As essential as air to breath, water to drink, food to eat. She knew this to be the truth; the only real truth. Sometimes, it was an ugly truth. Sometimes, a hurtful truth. It was never something people wanted to hear, certainly not the struggling, the downtrodden, the just surviving, but it was truth nonetheless.

Even the tailees, the stowaways, the nonbelongers, had a place.

For a long time, they're a force to rally against. They don't belong and they know it. They fight tooth and nail, scrabbling and fighting to make their place in a place where they aren't wanted. They rebel, because no one has any interest in them, other than to abuse and push away, to contain and corrall. The second class citizens left behind, which the rest of the ticketed train passengers step upon to raise themselves higher.

They're a reminder: someone steps out of line, becomes dissatisfied, and she, Wilford says, _at least you're not them,_ and people are forced to remember how good they have it.

It's unfortunate, but it's the price of balance. A few sacrificed souls are well spent, if it keeps the relative peace.

Everyone is afraid of Mr. Wilford. It has not occurred to them, to be wary of the blue blazer standing right before them. It has not dawned on them, that the pristine woman, so sterile and hospitable, all perfect lines and smooth edges, who speaks for their great, valiant leader, the one who makes it all run, who makes the choices and pronounces the punishments and is the only reason the train continues to revolve, may speak for no one at all.

Cavill finds that people fear the unknown. People fear the mighty and the unreachable and the confusing. 

Mr. Wilford, the one of her creation (not the one long dead, frostbitten and shattered by now), was all of these things. A higher authority, one that was uncompromising. Unquestionable.

Reassuring. Comforting.

Cavill finds that people listen better that way, when there's more weight behind her words (because she speaks not just for herself, but for Wilford, for the company, for the _train_ ).

_Attention passengers, Wilford Industries wishes you good morning. The temperature out beyond is -1178° below zero._

_It might be wise to brace._

"You're the voice of the train," it's a somewhat surprised statement, somewhat dawning recognition and wide eyed realization, and a simple fact unable to be ignored.

There's a little bit of satisfaction, at being recognized. Also, a bit of surprise, nerves perhaps, because she's never acknowledged so clearly, up front, out loud, right in front of her. She works behind the scenes. Behind the sidelines.

She's somewhat taken aback, that he notices, notices so quickly.

"Yes I am" She smiles, ever so faintly, with a polite incline of her head.

He's the first person she tells, beyond the engineers, who're so far removed from the other passengers, by doorways, stigmas, preference, that it'd be a miracle if one of them got in contact with another human being long enough to tell.

There's a crack in her perfectly built facade, a glaring gape where her vulnerabilities can be glimpsed, past her pristine, porcelain features. Her hair has come undone, and her eyes are red and her hands are shaking, shaking like leaves. She laughs from her seat in the prison car, and she can feel his eyes on her, and finds she's unable to bring herself to care that he's seeing all this.

She's so tired, and she just doesn't care anymore. At least, not at this moment.

He looks taken aback, when another half laugh, half choking sob bubbles from her throat.

She'd always been an ugly crier: it's part of why she's not wont to do so in front of others.

"Woah… uh, you good… I've never seen an upperclassmen get so bent out of shape"

She shakes her head, tangling one hand in her hair, trying to sate the massive headache sure to intensify. The other reaches toward her lapel, tracing the W pin. Finally, she takes both hands, and unfastens it, holding it between thumb and index finger. Considering it.

Considering this whole damn mess.

"I'm Mr. Wilford" She mutters finally, staring at the pin still. Abrupt.

Layton's eyes widen, round with surprise, perhaps at how sudden the declaration is. It comes straight from nowhere, from silence and nothing, and he'd been certain she wouldn't answer him at all. Then his expression smooths, and there's that dawning recognition, the same that'd come over him when he identified her as the Voice of the Train.

He chuckles.

"So all that, Mr. Wilford says this, and Mr. Wilford wants that, all that was-"

She laughs too, though she isn't amused and she feels like her head may explode.

"A ploy, really. Mr. Wilford never even made it on the train"

"So it's all you"

"Yes" Even the part where she pulled a tailee out from the darkness, wanted him to spearhead the oncoming investigation. She knew he was the right man for the job, had been watching for months, and she needed someone to take up the mantle of even a tiny bit of the load. (She also knows he's the leader of the tailees, the rallying point of the ralliers. He's capable, dangerous, so It only makes sense to section, syphon him off, to separate him from his fellows, and entice him away with little known luxuries and tantalizing perks).

The entirety of the train weighs upon her, 1001 cars seated across her narrow shoulders, a nearly crushing force. 

3000 souls count on her. The balance of the ecosystem teeters, hanging in the balance with every decision she makes.

It only makes sense, she thinks, to rid herself of the concern of 1 of those passengers, one of those souls, dead but still weighing like all the rest.

It makes sense, she thinks, to leave the murder in Layton's capable hands.

She looks up, gazing at him through the cell bars. His elbows are braced against his knees, chin in his hands. There's still the wound on his forehead, red and bruising, and there's a glimpse of stitching, glinting with the steel of staples. He doesn't belong, and it's made clear by his rugged exterior, his rough edges, his manner.

Then again, none of them do. Belong, that is. They're all just _surviving_.

"Can't say I'm surprised"

His head tilts. He's waiting for her to say something more. Something else. Waiting patiently, because of course, he has nowhere to go. Or, perhaps he has an interest.... They aren't friends, certainly, but she would no longer call them 'enemies'. Acquaintances, perhaps. In this moment, at least.

Acquaintances had interest in acquaintances. 

She rises to her feet, brushing the creases from her blazer with crisp, steady motions. She makes a show of refastening the pin and wiping the mascara from her eyes, standing ramrod straight.

Pulling herself back together. Soon, there's no sign of her little tizzy. Of any vulnerability. Good.

She turns back toward the cell. Smiles, small, polite, distant. Putting distance between them, though they're standing a couple feet apart, and the only thing separating them is a set of steel bars.

"Wilford Industries wishes you a good evening, Mr. Layton"

Then she's gone, and the moment with her.

* * *

Melanie should have expected to see Andre Layton in her quarters. She was the one to let him go, after all, with a thin smile and a strawberry (a reminder) exchanged between hands as he slipped out of his cell.

Regardless, she's still surprised, when she bids Javi hello, and Bennet yanks her aside and whispers tersely, "He's here".

There's no need to elaborate on who _he_ is.

When she slides the door to her personal quarters open, Layton is seated on her thin mattress, head bowed forward to fit under the shelf. He's staring at her.

"Hey, Ms. Cavill. Took you long enough to decide to come back. I've been waiting for you all morning" He grins, wolfish and relaxed. 

Melanie abruptly shuts the door. Fusses with the always sticking lock, before turning back to the blot of dark leather amongst the sterile whites of her cramped quarters. The blot who'd snuck in, unannounced and undesired.

He's picked up a picture off of the board tacked above her desk, and he's flipping it in his hands, turn, turn, turn. Melanie's hackles rise at the sight. She wants to snatch it back, but won't give him the satisfaction.

He's seen her agitated once too many times before, already.

"How did you get in here?" Melanie asks- every inch the Head of Hospitality- once she's recomposed herself.

"I am the Train Detective" He replies, dropping the photograph on the floor. "And no one knows where a murder might happen, right?" 

He looks cleaner than the last time Melanie saw him. The bruises have started to lose their yellowish quality, and the stitches are still present but the staples are gone. He's wearing boots without holes in them, fresh boots, and his eyes aren't nearly so red anymore, whiter. He looks darn near healthy. 3rd class healthy, even. 

And just as smug. Third class smug, Cavill observes, with an ironic smile. "So, are we gonna talk about that thing from yesterday?"

Melanie can answer that easily. "No. We aren't" 

"No?"

"No"

Layton's response is dismissive, a careless wave. He reaches into his pocket, procuring a bright red apple that's fit to reside on a billboard, a tenement to late 2000s consumerism- perfectly ruby skinned and probably stolen from the produce car. He buffs the side of it against his jacket, meticulous and careful. Crunches into the crisp skin with abandon. 

"That's okay. I can find _other_ people to talk to" He finally says to Melanie through a mouthful of apple, after a good, full minute of crunching. Then he casually casts his gaze around, appraising, drinking in every cluttered shelf, every tiny cubby hole partition. 

His gaze lands on the MIT sweatshirt, hung up in the corner, and lingers. There's a flit of amusement, and Melanie can imagine the conversation they might have had, if they'd crossed paths before all this, before the world froze over; _"You're a beaver, huh? What'd you major in?"_

It'd be conversational. Relaxed. They might have become friends. Maybe.

But the planet out beyond is merely a frozen shell, a husk, and the train churns on, relentless. The _world,_ Snowpiercer, churns on, relentless.

Layton is sharp, and if he weren't Melanie would be disappointed. "I'm not gonna lie, Cavill. I was expecting this room to be a lot nicer. Especially considering it houses our dear 'Mr. Wilford'. Where's the indoor pool, the champagne fountain, the stove?"

He's laughing. Cavill is well aware of the corner he's attempting to back her into, but doesn't see a gap through which to flee. She smiles sharply, begrudgingly impressed.

"Left behind, the same way we left behind walk-in showers and strolls outside" A pause, languid and heavy. The sound of metal against the train tracks is suddenly screeching and undeniable. "What do you want?"

"I want in"

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before the big Identity reveal, hence the divergence from canon. In my version of events Melanie basically _is_ Wilford, and no I do not take criticism. Kidding. Criticism is cool, just so long as it's constructive.
> 
> I might do more with this. Maybe. We'll see.


End file.
